Hot Chocolate
by Eunoia
Summary: Joyce's habit of denying the unbelievable started early on.


Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Actually, pretty much the entire first part is stolen from the show too, so I don't quite own that either.  
  
Sunnydale, 1998: Joyce drove down Revello drive, barely watching the road, her head full of thoughts about her daughter being on the run from the law. She knew Buffy was no angel, but this...this was more than she ever could have imagined. Where did she go wrong? Joyce was so preoccupied she didn't notice until she pulled into the driveway that Buffy was there, in front of the house, with a platinum blond man in a leather jacket. An oddly familiar-looking man.  
  
She jumped out of the car, while babbling about God knows what. She really didn't know what she should say right now. Buffy started to give her a completely unconvincing argument about being in a band, when all of a sudden a man jumped out of the shadows at them. Buffy's supposed band-mate started punching the man, no, not a man, some sort of monster. Maybe another one of those gang members on PCP. Joyce looked on, unsure of what to do, this bizarre occurrence just one of many in the last few years. Suddenly, the attacker was shoved toward Buffy, and just as Joyce's mothering instincts kicked in, Buffy pulled some sort of stick out of her coat and stabbed the man. Joyce was about to cry out when the man dissolved into dust, silencing her.  
  
The formerly man-shaped dust floated off into the wind, and Joyce barely heard Buffy's friend saying something about tattling, as the wind whispered in her ear. "Mother of Death," was its message.  
  
A few minutes later, Joyce was sitting with Spike in the living room, attempting to process all the information she had just been given. She glanced over him, sitting in her armchair as if this was nothing new for him. She meant to look away, but something about him held her gaze. "Have we met before?" she asked him, in such an everyday tone she felt like laughing.  
  
"You hit me with an ax once. Remember, uh, 'Get the hell away from my daughter,'" was his reply.  
  
Joyce nodded, remembering. She really didn't know how to respond. This certainly wasn't any stranger than anything else she had just heard. Buffy still hadn't returned from the kitchen, and Joyce was starting to get uncomfortable. She found her stare returning to Spike. He really did seem familiar, and not just from a few months ago. But before she could think too much Buffy had returned. Joyce immediately forgot about Spike in favour of worrying about the more immediate problems.  
  
New York City, 1977: "Come on, Joyce, we're going to miss it!" Two college-aged girls ran as fast as their ridiculously insensible shoes would allow them to toward the doors of the subway train. The doors closed just before they could jump on, the train barreling down the track, leaving them the only two people on the platform.  
  
"Dammit!" yelled Joyce's best friend, Friday. Of course her name wasn't really Friday. Joyce had christened her this back in the sixth grade when Frida had been complaining about having the most boring, dumpy name ever. They figured they would add a 'y' to the end, and it could be her cool, rock star name. Somehow it actually stuck, unlike Joyce's 'Monday,' which corresponded to her lame-ass middle name of Mona. Best friends' having matching nicknames was very in that year, but the name just never stuck. Plus, they agreed it didn't make sense to have a nickname that was longer than your actual name.  
  
Even if the nickname hadn't stuck, their friendship managed to, a hell of a lot longer than anyone had expected. Joyce was outgoing and popular, if somewhat of an unoriginal thinker, while Friday was quiet and bookish, but incredibly interesting, especially when only Joyce was around. Even now that Friday was going to Columbia and Joyce was stuck back in LA where they grew up, they still maintained their bond, which is why Joyce was spending the summer after college graduation in New York.  
  
The girls sunk down onto a bench, out of breath. "We're never going to make it to the show now," Joyce complained.  
  
"Well, whose fault is that, Miss hour-long-makeup-session? It's a dark club, you know."  
  
"Just 'cause you're not interested in hooking up with anyone, doesn't mean I'm not."  
  
"God, you make it sound like I'm gay or something. I am interested in hooking up with someone, just a specific someone, rather than who-ever'll take me."  
  
"Well, if you're so interested, then why don't you tell him? He's going back to Chicago in a week; it's your last chance. And by the way, I resent that," Joyce replied, with a smile to let Friday know she was kidding. She and her Hank had just gotten engaged the month before, and both girls knew that she had eyes for no one else.  
  
"You know what? You're right. I will tell him," announced Friday, all the drinks she had earlier finally catching up to her. She got off the bench and walked over to the payphone, even in her drunken state avoiding any unnecessary contact with the germ-ridden phone. She turned to Joyce and gave her an exaggerated thumbs-up, then dropped in her change and dialed the number she had memorized, despite never having called it before. She was so nervous she completely missed the sound of footsteps making their way up the dark tunnel towards her.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
It took all of Friday's strength not to hang up, but she forced herself to answer. "Hey, Bruce."  
  
"Who is this?"  
  
"Uh, Frida, Frida Harper. From your bio lab."  
  
"Oh, right, Frida. How's it going?"  
  
"Um, good, actually."  
  
"That's good." There was an awkward pause as Bruce ran a couple of faces through his mind, trying to figure out which one was Frida.  
  
"So, um, I was actually calling because, I, uh, I know who wrote you all those love poems." As soon as she said this Friday wished she could take it back.  
  
"Really? Who?"  
  
"I, uh, I, um..." Friday looked over at Joyce for support. Joyce gave her an encouraging smile. "It was me!" Friday blurted out, actively fighting the urge to pretend she was kidding.  
  
"Uh, wow. Okay. Thanks, I guess. That was sweet."  
  
"So, do you think that maybe we get together sometime, and talk or something?"  
  
"Actually...I'm leaving for Chicago soon."  
  
"Right, but maybe before you go..."  
  
"You know what, Rita, I'm going to have to pass. Sorry." After that the only sound was the dial tone. Friday stared at the receiver in her hand, fighting back tears.  
  
Unbeknownst to her, her little humiliation had a witness. A bleach-blond vampire waited in the darkness, one arm holding his girlfriend back, a strange look on his face. If someone watching hadn't known better they might even have mistaken it for empathy. As she hung up the phone dejectedly, the vampire seemed to make up his mind about something, and he snaked a leather-clad arm out of the darkness to grab her.  
  
Friday screamed, causing Joyce to leap out of her seat to run towards her friend who seemed to have disappeared into the darkness. Before she could reach her, a figure, all dressed in white, came out of the shadows and grabbed her.  
  
"Friday!" Joyce screamed  
  
"Friday? Is that your name, pet?" echoed the British voice.  
  
"I don't like Fridays," said his female companion with her own distinct accent, still holding Joyce by the neck tighter than Joyce could have imagined such a frail-looking woman capable of. "I like Sundays. That's when the whole family spends the day together, all in our Sunday best. The blue dress was my favourite. Do you like blue?" she asked Joyce. Joyce just nodded, near tears. "Let's name her Sunday, Spike." "Naming our dinner now, luv?"  
  
"Not dinner. I think...I think she shall be your sister. And you can play together, and laugh together, kill together." Drusilla was so excited by this prospect that she started to clap, a maniacal smile on her face. Joyce took this opportunity to try to run away, but Drusilla caught her again without even trying.  
  
"You know what, Dru? I think I would like a sister...this one looks like she'd be a hell of a lot better as one of us than one of them, don't you think? Don't worry pet, no man will be able to resist your poetry soon."  
  
Joyce still couldn't see what was happening, but she heard Friday cry out then, causing her to struggle against Drusilla's iron grip. For the first time, Drusilla really looked at her, saying "Not yet. You'll get your turn after. First, you can watch us play with her." As Drusilla looked Joyce in the eyes, some sort of realization came over her face. "Mother of Death," she whispered.  
  
Joyce didn't know what she meant, but didn't have much time to think about it, as Spike stepped out of the shadows with Friday. Joyce looked on in horror as his monstrous face sank further into her friend's flesh, blood spilling everywhere.  
  
"Spiiiike," Drusilla whined.  
  
"Don't worry, luv, I haven't forgotten about you," was his response, as he thrust the girl towards her. She bit in viciously, still embracing Joyce with her other arm. Joyce could smell the blood and she thought she was going to be sick. Drusilla then ripped her wrist open with her own fingernail, bringing Friday's already dead-looking face right up to Joyce's in the process. She brought her wrist to Friday's mouth.  
  
"Drink," she commanded.  
  
"Friday, don't!" Joyce tried to warn, but Spike grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth with his hand. A split-second later it was over. Friday's body was dropped to the ground as Joyce choked back tears.  
  
Suddenly, a dark figure jumped out of the darkness onto Spike, who tossed Joyce into the wall in surprise.  
  
"Slayer," he snarled, whipping his jacket onto the ground. Then they began to fight. "Dru! Get out of here! Back to the lair!"  
  
"How come I don't get to play?" Dru pouted. She made a move toward the duo, who were moving with such speed and grace that their movements resembled a dance more than a battle. At this point, the train had finally arrived and the doors to the empty car were about to close. When Spike saw Drusilla coming after him he hurled the Slayer into the train and leapt through himself, the doors closing behind them. "Fine. Well, we can have our own fun, can't we Sunday, darling? We'll have a tea party with Miss Edith and her friends. Just let me kill me your friend, and we'll..." Drusilla turned toward where Joyce had been only a moment before, but Joyce was long gone, having seized her chance and hastened up the steps to the surface. She had briefly considered attempting to bring Friday with her, but the glassy eyes staring out from the deathly white face convinced her otherwise. That was the last she ever saw of her friend. As she reached the street, everything she had just witnessed overwhelmed her, and the world went dark.  
  
She woke up in a hospital bed, over 30 hours later. Her head was throbbing, and her thoughts were still murky an hour after she awakened, when the police arrived.  
  
The doctor argued with them, saying she needed her rest, but Joyce silence him. "I'm fine. I can answer your questions," she said with a smile.  
  
"Thank you, Miss. Alright, we've been in touch with your parents, and it seems you were in town with a Miss Frida Harper. She hasn't been seen in approximately 36 hours. Do you know if anything happened to her?"  
  
Joyce opened her mouth to spill the whole story, when suddenly she realized she didn't have a story to spill. She had a vague feeling of unrest in the pit of her stomach, but she couldn't remember anything after Friday hung up the phone. "I, uh, it's the strangest thing, but I don't remember." The officer raised his eyebrows at her. She gave him a sheepish grin, realizing how stupid that sounded. "I remember we were at the subway station, and she went to make a phone call, and, and then I don't remember."  
  
It was clear he didn't quite buy the story, but after a few minutes of coaxing he realized he wasn't going to get anymore out of her, so he told the doctor to give him a call if she remembered anything. But she never did. They still hadn't found a body three days later when Hank arrived at the hospital. She had insisted she was well enough to return on her own, but he wouldn't hear of it.  
  
"I just, I just can't imagine what you've been through these last few days that could be bad enough to make you lose your memory, Joyce. If there's anything I can do..."  
  
"I'm fine, Hank, really. There's nothing you can do right now—well, actually..."  
  
"What is it, sweetie? Anything you want."  
  
"Nothing major. Just, I think all I need is some hot chocolate and I'll be fine." 


End file.
